COLLEAGUES

 

God is my witness – I didn't plan this meeting. It happened solely because I was, uh... not entirely sober. I was sitting in a Moscow restaurant with a prominent figure in the information business world. He was treating me to magnificent Chinese cuisine with an abundance of excellent Czech beer. He needed my brains. I needed his money. It seemed we were finding common ground.

Ah, it was a pleasant meeting, and I was in high spirits, which only soared higher with each beer.

In moments like these, I feel as smart as Einstein and as strong as Mike Tyson. I could even challenge the latter to a 12-round bout. And if no one dragged me away, I'd turn that boxer into a pork chop!!! But I didn't call Mike; I called my new acquaintance. I phoned him on my mobile. He gave me a time and explained how to get to his workplace at the Gorbachev Foundation. However, I was too "three sheets to the wind" to bother with such a trifle as an address. In my state, I was certain I could manage without it. Shoving the phone in my pocket, I attended to my other business in the capital, which is to say, chiefly and primarily, the search for dictionaries. Dragging my wheeled suitcase behind me, I scoured Moscow's bookstores. Why such a bulky contraption? Elementary, Watson! Books are heavy as bricks, and I'm no young weightlifter.

That night, in full accordance with Russian tradition, I continued my libations in the company of my former schoolteacher, now living in Moscow. We reminisced about the good old days, and I persuaded a bottle of vodka to empty itself – a double norm for me, not much of a drinker. In the morning, naturally, I was in a sorry state... Rumpled and puffy, I dashed off to the meeting place, dragging my clattering trolley behind me.

But where to go? I only had a vague idea. The policeman on the street had only heard of the Gorbachev Foundation in passing. However, a street vendor selling socks and underwear set me on the right path. Thank you, my dear!

I enter a posh building, though not a skyscraper. Burly guys in the lobby politely inquire about my business at this institution. Thank God they didn't sniff me, or they'd have collapsed from alcohol poisoning.

I called him on the internal phone. He asked me to come up.
I go up. Walking down the "corridor of power." Here, you might bump nose-to-nose with the author of "perestroika." God forbid! One door at the end of the corridor is open. I knock (as I was taught in the army) and enter. I recognize him immediately. He has a head as bald as a boiled egg and Mark Twain's bushy mustache. I've seen him on TV many times. Sometimes with Reagan, sometimes with Gorbachev, sometimes with Kofi Annan, sometimes with the current President of Russia. He rises from behind his desk and comes towards me with an outstretched hand. "Why so late!" he asks. "I only have 10 minutes."

I don't say that I was drinking heavily for two days (actually, I rarely drink) and that the meeting is taking place solely thanks to that fact. Instead, I mumble something about unforeseen circumstances. "Pity!" he says. "We have almost no time. Otherwise, we could have gone out for a beer..." "Yeah," I silently agree with him. "And who'd be the third? The US President or the UN Secretary-General?" He hands me books, dictionaries, and the Encyclopaedia Britannica on CD-ROMs, brought from New York. Royal gifts! In one book, of which he is the author, he writes a dedication. "I have to go," he says.

We get up and leave. He walks fast. I trail behind him, my trolley clattering. No one pays us any attention. Just two men chatting animatedly, hurrying to the metro station. It wouldn't occur to anyone that one of them is a UN staffer, and the second is a watchman from some Russian backwater like Mukhosransk. On the metro, we're pressed tightly together. I look at his teeth (a habit from my student days studying phonetics and watching the teacher's mouth). They're not perfectly straight, but they're strong and all present. Whereas I, though younger than him, have already lost my front teeth and speak with a bit of a lisp.

"How audacious you are, though!" he remarks. "Never been to an English-speaking country, but you try to write in English. And all for free. That's... akin to heroism..." I think we understand each other. I'm not at all surprised by this meeting – because we're both interested in, no, captivated by, the same magic – the magic of Russian and English words.

God is my witness, I didn't plan this meeting...

At home, I discover that in the preface to his book on translation problems, he mentions my name among those who helped him in his work. What a grateful and noble gentleman...
…………………..

Later, we corresponded by email. He wrote about amazing Venice and extraordinary New York, which he loves and where he has many friends. I wrote about my very ordinary Zarechye, which I also love. I understood – to each his own. Letters from him came less and less frequently. And then the correspondence stopped. Did something happen?

Once, while slightly tipsy, it occurred to me – why not call him? I picked up the phone. Recognized his voice immediately. Since I was "in high spirits," I started speaking English. No one answered at the other end and... hung up. The next day I called again.

·         Hello! It's me! Recognize me? – I said in Russian.

·         Yes, yes, I do.

·         No word from you in a long time. Anything wrong?

He started explaining something about changed circumstances, lack of time, being very busy. I understood. None so busy as the one who doesn't care. I hung up... Looked at the shelf holding the books he personally gave me. Very useful, excellent dictionaries. Thank you, colleague…